


losing myself in the best way

by diets0dasociety



Category: 5 Seconds of Summer (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Neighbors, M/M, Mashton - Friendship, Neighbours AU, also michael has a dog, they're all students
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-09
Updated: 2016-06-09
Packaged: 2018-07-14 01:28:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,377
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7146560
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/diets0dasociety/pseuds/diets0dasociety
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Michael’s not a jealous guy, honestly. It’s a trait he prides himself on, how he’s never really been one to let his desires overcome how content he is with his life – because it’s a pretty sweet life. </p><p>That is, until his next door neighbour moves in.</p><p> </p><p>or, malum neighbour AU in which michael is really honestly not jealous at all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	losing myself in the best way

**Author's Note:**

> okay so I know I promised two malum chaptered fics but my friend's car got keyed yesterday and this just... happened?
> 
> this is only a short one, little bit of fun and not my best work but I enjoyed writing it all the same.
> 
> hope you like it!

Michael’s not a jealous guy, honestly. It’s a trait he prides himself on, how he’s never really been one to let his desires overcome how content he is with his life – because it’s a pretty sweet life. He loves his job, with its decent hours and just-better-than-average pay, and his favourable uni schedule means he’s always got a few hours a day for fucking around between studying and shifts. He lives alone, in a spacious yet cosy studio apartment that’s in walking distance of just about everything, but he’s never lonely, not with Dexter the bulldog constantly falling asleep at his ankles. He’s got a good relationship with his parents, sees them often enough not to miss them but not too much that they annoy him, and a best friend who loves Friday night movie marathons even more than he does.

 

So, yeah. Michael’s not a jealous guy, because he likes to think he’s got nothing to be jealous about.

 

That is, until his next door neighbour moves in.

 

-

 

Ashton knows it’s a problem the minute the moving truck pulls up outside, because Ashton’s always had a weird knack for deciphering the future that Michael really isn’t a fan of.

 

“New neighbour?” Ashton asks from the window, where he’s pulled up a chair and resigned to his fate of cuddling Dexter all night, who’d fallen asleep on him the second he walked in.

 

“Yeah, I guess.” Michael’s not entirely interested; he got a letter from his landlord the week before informing him of the new arrival and requesting that the hallway be cleared of Dexter’s toys before the move in date. Michael had complied, because the landlord’s actually a really nice guy and he would quite like to stay on the right side of him, even going as far as to leave a little cactus outside the door directly to his left – y’know, as a welcoming present.

 

Ashton hums in response, sipping his tea and continuing to peer out of the window inquisitively. Michael doesn’t bother to move from the sofa, too wrapped up in whichever episode of Game of Thrones is playing, and doesn’t notice when Ashton turns to smirk at him a second later.

 

“We have a problem,” Ashton chuckles, straightening his expression as Michael whips his head up in a flash, reaching to pause the TV rather ungracefully with his toe.

 

“What?” Michael’s panicked, and rightly so, because he’d had a problem with the last three people to have lived in the apartment next door. “Is it a couple? The landlord said it was just one guy – oh _god_ , I can’t deal with another couple.”

 

“Not a couple.” Ashton chuckles again; unable to keep the amusement off his face at Michael’s concerned flailing.

 

“What is it then?” The younger boy asks suspiciously, “Does he have a cat? Are we gonna have to keep Dexter indoors?”

 

“Mike, it’s in your lease to keep Dex indoors anyway,” Ashton rolls his eyes. “But no, there’s no cat.”

 

Michael gestures in confusion, silently encouraging Ashton to keep talking. They’ve been best friends for years, and Michael’s still not a fan of Ashton’s tendency to go off topic. Ashton simply smirks, turning back to the window and sipping his tea again.

 

“The problem is,” He draws it out, just because he can, “He’s exactly your type.”

 

There’s a second of silence, then Michael scoffs because that’s the complete opposite of a problem, and Ashton really shouldn’t scare him like that. He tells him exactly that, standing up to smack the older boy on the back of the head as he shuffles to the corner of the kitchen to find a snack.

 

“Come on, Mike. I know you.” Ashton follows him into the kitchen, pushing a visibly offended Dexter off his lap and onto the pile of pillows on the floor. “You’re gonna take one look at the guy and swoon, and then spend the next three months admiring him from afar and being too scared to get to know him.”

 

“That’s totally not true.” Michael mutters into the cupboard, pouting because of course that’s totally true and he very much wishes it wasn’t, or that Ashton would stop being so right all the time.

 

“Whatever, Mike,” Ashton shoves his shoulder into Michael’s, leaning over him to grab the last packet of crisps in the corner of the cupboard. “Don’t come running to me when you fall head over heels in love.”

 

Michael watches Ashton saunter away, with _his_ favourite snack in hand and chucking to himself, and decides that he’s _definitely_ going to prove his best friend wrong. Michael’s not going to fall in love with his next-door neighbour. Michael’s going to be completely cool, they’ll be great friends and everything will be _fine_.

 

-

 

Everything is very not fine, and Michael’s very much in love with his next-door neighbour.

 

Michael’s grand plan of friendship goes to shit the day after said next-door neighbour moves in. He’s going about his usual early morning routine – feed Dex, make cereal, eat cereal, watch Community, make coffee, text Ash, drink coffee, brush teeth, get dressed, water plants, check postbox, cuddle Dex, leave for class – when there’s a knock on the door.

 

Michael, admittedly, panics. A knock on the door in the morning itself isn’t horrendously abnormal; Ashton tends to drop in unannounced so they can walk to campus together a few times a week. But Ashton knows never to set off before he gets a text from Michael, knows still to leave it ten minutes before setting off after that so the younger boy’s dressed when he arrives, and Michael’s only halfway through his bowl of cereal this morning, and the knock isn’t Ashton’s signature rhythm, and Michael is _panicking_.

 

For the briefest of moments, he considers ignoring it completely and reaches to turn the TV up. There’s another knock then, and it’s only been a matter of seconds since the first, so Michael figures it’s urgent and launches off the sofa in the direction of the door. In the time it takes to get there, he’s already created a million various scenarios that could be about to play out: the landlord’s here to kick him out, the police are here to tell him Ashton’s missing, his parents are here to tell him that they’re getting divorced, Ashton’s here to announce he’s moving away, his ex-boyfriend is here to finally deliver that sucker punch he’d promised when they broke up four years ago.

 

Honestly, Michael’s expecting some kind of disaster when he opens the door.

 

What he doesn’t expect is possibly the hottest person he’s ever seen in his life beaming at him from the doorway, with a bottle of champagne in one hand and a box of maltesers in the other. Michael feels winded, just for a second, stood mouth agape and eyes wide at this _beautiful_ stranger whose smile hasn’t wavered once, even with Michael’s stunned reaction.

 

Michael _really_ regrets choosing to wear his TMNT pyjamas last night.

 

“Uh, hi?” Michael asks more than says, painfully aware that it comes out as a sort of squeal. The boy seems not to have noticed.

 

“Hey there!” He replies enthusiastically, eyes crinkling at the sides as he smiles, “Did you give me a cactus?”

 

“Um,” Michael’s feeling a little overwhelmed, honestly, because he really thought he was a morning person, but it’s barely 7am and the boy in front of him is smiling like he’s drank six cups of coffee and a red bull already. “Yes?”

 

“Sweet, thanks!” Out of nowhere, Michael’s suddenly holding the champagne and chocolates that were previously in the boy’s hands, “I wanted to get something to thank you. My apartment looks pretty dull at the moment but the cactus looks fucking great next to my bed.”

 

Michael vaguely registers that the $2 cactus he bought from the nearby garden centre is _definitely_ not worth the champagne in his hands, but he can’t bring himself to complain when his apparent new neighbour is smiling so brightly at him.

 

“Um, you’re welcome?” He shuffles the maltesers into his left hand, sticking out his right and mentally cursing when he notices the milk dripping from his thumb. “I’m Michael, your neighbour apparently.”

 

The boy’s smile somehow seems to get wider as he takes Michael’s hand, and Michael can’t help but admire the delicate initials inked into his skin. He makes a note to ask him about that later, y’know when his great plan of friendship ultimately succeeds.

 

“Pleasure to meet you, Mikey. Can I call you Mikey?” The boy beams when Michael nods, “I’m Calum, can call me Cal though.”

 

“Nice to meet you, Cal.” Michael decides very quickly that he likes how _Cal_ rolls off his tongue, which is so obnoxiously poetic and definitely something Ashton would say, but whatever.

 

“Well,” The boy- _Cal_ says, scratching the back of his neck, “I’ve gotta run, but I’ll see you soon, right?”

 

“Yeah!” Michael tries desperately not to let the disappointment slip into his voice, “I’m sure I’ll see you getting post or in the lobby or something…”

 

“Oh, good.” Calum smirks, which is possibly the most attractive thing Michael’s ever seen and he just _knows_ his chest is going to be all flustered and flushed red under his TMNT pyjama top. “Wouldn’t want to go too long without seeing a pretty face like yours again.”

 

And then, as easy as that, Calum’s waving a cute little wave and turning to walk down the hallway. Michael’s left rocking on his tiptoes, face bright red as he replays that last sentence in his mind. _Pretty face like yours, pretty face like yours, pretty face like yours, pretty face like yours_. He thinks he manages to squeak out a goodbye, decides he must do because Calum tenses, then throws his head back and-

 

He winks.

 

Calum fucking stares Michael in the eye, and winks. Michael’s completely flustered, words catching on his tongue and turning into little coughs that sound a bit like he’s dying. He flings himself back into the safety of his apartment and slams the door.

 

As he slides down to the floor with bright red cheeks and a dazed smile, Michael decides that Ashton was right. He’s fucked.

 

-

 

The next few days pass by without incident; Michael attempts to continue life as normal without thinking too much about the boy next door, and by the end of the week he’s drowning in enough overdue uni work to have completely forgotten about the whole thing.

 

Ashton’s round when it happens, sitting on the kitchen counter as he often does when Michael’s got papers and textbooks sprawled across every other surface in the apartment. The record player next to Michael’s bed is spinning _Deja Entendu_ , and Ashton’s loudly complaining that this “emo shit” will never motivate Michael to get any work done, even as he sings along to the chorus of _The Quiet Things That No One Ever Knows_. Michael knows that Ashton knows that Michael knows that Ashton loves his music taste really, and they both know that no amount of complaining would ever convince Michael to turn Brand New off, so the whole charade is rather pointless – but it’s tradition.

 

The next track starts and Michael stretches out, grabbing his phone from his pillow and joining Ashton in the kitchen. The older boy’s launched into an anecdote about a workmate of his that Michael’s only half listening to, losing himself in humming along to the song echoing through the apartment and trying to find his jaffa cakes instead. They’re right at the back of the cupboard, jammed between two jars of nutella and suspiciously half empty, though Michael swore he’d not opened them yet. He turns to Ashton, who’s still complaining about his colleague, and shakes the packet in his face.

 

“But he’s just so annoying, like he’s just one of those peo- woah.” The guilty smile on his face gives the game away immediately, “Sorry?”

 

“Honestly, Ashton, you might as well move in at this point,” Michael grumbles, though both boys know he’s not actually angry. “You spend all your time here and eat all my food, and I’m pretty sure Dex actually likes you more than he likes me these days.”

 

“Oh fuck off Mike, I don’t eat _all_ your fo-“

 

The voice that drifts in from the hallway is the kind of voice that could stop traffic, Michael thinks. It’s beautiful, soft and shaking and high in a way that makes it equal parts delicate and strong. Michael and Ashton both stare at the open doorway, conversation forgotten as the voice gets louder and its owner comes closer.

 

_“You are calm and reposed; let your beauty unfold, pale white like the skin stretched over your bones. Spring keeps you ever close, you are second hand smoke…”_

Calum appears in the doorway, lips turned up in a lazy smile, and looks between Michael and Ashton before waving awkwardly.

 

“Uh, hey neighbour.” He laughs a little as he speaks, which shakes Michael out of his stare enough for him to wave back. “Nice, uh, choice of music. _Deja_ ’s my favourite album.”

 

“Mine too,” Michael says, impressively stable regardless of the stare he knows he’s getting off Ashton, which _oh right._ “Cal, this is Ashton. Ash, this is Cal. My neighbour.”

 

Michael gestures to Ashton, who’s returned to dunking jaffa cakes into his tea, and Calum laughs, nodding his head and smiling fondly at Michael, who really has to learn to control himself around his new neighbour because he’s flustered _again_ and Calum’s not even done anything.

 

“Good to meet you,” Calum positively beams. “Gotta dash though, parents are expecting me.” He rolls his eyes, which Michael giggles softly at, earning a scoff from Ashton behind him.

 

“See you around, Cal.”

 

“Yeah, see you later cutie.” Calum smiles as he continues past the doorway, as if he’s not just left Michael a spluttering mess. Michael turns to Ashton, blinking away his complete heart eyes just in time to see Ashton roll his fondly.

 

“You’re fucked.”

 

“Oh, I know.”

 

-

 

It’s another few days before Michael sees Calum again, and during their time apart, Michael decides he’s suffered through enough flustered blushing and plans to ask his neighbour to hang out the next time they bump into each other.

 

As it turns out, his plans are sort of unnecessary, because Calum literally comes knocking on his door.

 

“Cal?” Michael’s smiling, which seems to have become his knee-jerk reaction to seeing Calum, but the confused tone in his voice is obvious.

 

“Hey, Mikey,” Calum smiles, leaning against the doorframe with hands clasped in front of him. “You busy?”

 

“Um, not really…” Michael’s lying. He’s definitely busy – this week’s episode of Game of Thrones airs in ten minutes, and Michael’s halfway through making nachos as his traditional GoT snack.

 

“Oh, great!” Calum claps and smiles a little wider, eyes crinkling the way they always do, “I didn’t want to just drop this on you, but my TV license hasn’t come through yet, and I _really_ want to watch Game of Thrones so, like, could I maybe watch it here? It’s fine if not, I’ll ring a friend or watch it online later or-“

 

“Calum,” Michael laughs, reaching out a hand to Calum’s forearm to bring him back down to earth. His fingers brush up against the fabric of his jumper, and Michael’s suddenly all too aware how flirty that was. “I love Game of Thrones, of course you can watch it with me.”

 

Calum just smiles, shaking his head and stepping through the doorway as Michael gestures to the sofa and disappears into the kitchen to finish making nachos.

 

(He tries really _really_ hard to not overthink everything that could happen in the next hour of his existence. He fails.)

 

Twenty minutes later and Michael, for the first time in his life, is having great difficulty focusing on the adventures of Daenerys Targaryen. He decided very early on in the episode that nothing going on in Mereen could be quite as captivating as how Calum’s sharp jaw clenches whenever there’s tension on screen, or how his dark eyes dart between characters during dialogue, or how he breathes out of his nose in a not-quite-laugh whenever Tyrion Lannister opens his mouth. Michael’s absolutely fascinated by the boy sat beside him, completely enchanted by his every reaction and expression, so much so that he fails to notice when the boy in question pauses the TV and turns to look straight at him.

 

“Mikey?” Calum looks concerned, but his lips are just slightly twitching into a smile, like he knows exactly what’s going on but is cautious to jump to conclusions. Michael blinks out of it, cheeks burning a ferocious shade of red, and stares down at the his knees.

 

“U-uh, sorry, I.. I just,” Michael coughs and picks at his nails. He thinks he might have to disappear into the bathroom and never come out, doesn’t think he can face looking back up at Calum when he was so obviously fawning over him just a second before.

 

But then there’s a gentle hand reaching into his sight, and soft fingers running across the denim of his jeans, and Michael forgets how to breathe. In a fleeting moment of insanity and courage, he inches his own hand up onto his thigh and nudges the tan fingers with his own, nervously hooking their thumbs together before he can think better of it. It’s beautiful, he thinks, the way their skin looks entwined like this, like cream melting into caramel or coffee into vanilla. There’s a soft laugh by his side, and then Michael’s smiling and looking into Calum’s crinkled eyes.

 

“S’alright, Mikey,” He begins, almost whispering, gaze dropping down to their tangled hands. “I get lost looking at you sometimes, too.”

 

Michael smiles, and Calum smiles too. The sounds of Westeros return to his ears, but Calum’s hand remains on his thigh.

 

Michael’s _so_ fucked.

 

-

 

It becomes sort of a thing after that. Michael sees Calum in bursts throughout the week – small smiles and short conversations whilst checking their post, daily _“Good morning!”_ s spoken in whispers through their thin plaster walls, impromptu duets when _Deja_ is playing through an open doorway – but Calum will always be there, ten minutes before 9pm, knocking on Michael’s door every Monday night.

 

The first week, it’s uncomfortable. Two bodies, sat _just_ too far apart on a sofa really made to cuddle on, both boys unsure of boundaries and whether the week before was an anomaly. It takes two jumpscares and a beheading for Michael to give in, shuffling closer to Calum and throwing an arm around the back of the sofa so he can settle his head into the crook of the tan boy’s shoulder. Calum pretends not to feel Michael’s smile against his skin, and Michael pretends not to feel Calum’s fingertips slide up his stomach.

 

After that, it’s the most natural thing in the world. Michael slumps into Calum’s side with a bowl of nachos and salsa, and they watch in relative silence, throwing the occasional comment about which house they’d be in, or who they want to die next. It’s comfortable, it’s cosy – it’s everything Michael wants in a person.

 

Calum’s cuddly, soft between his defined muscle and sharp bone structure, and isn’t opposed to Dexter collapsing on his lap. Michael thinks he could stay like this forever, pushed up against Calum’s body with his dog sprawled on top of the both of them, watching Game of Thrones with nachos. And, yeah, sometimes Michael thinks he catches Calum watching his lips, or smiling into his chest, or pressing his mouth lightly against his neck – but Michael’s not complaining.

 

(He tries not to think about Calum’s lips on his as he falls asleep. He fails.)

 

A month or so into their little tradition, Michael convinces himself that Calum is God’s way of apologising for the shitty hands he got dealt in high school. There’s no way that _Calum Hood_ , with his ethereal beauty and soft touch and unrestrained smile, isn’t some sort of gift to Michael, no way that their coexistence in one apartment building could be a coincidence.

 

It’s the final episode of this season of Game of Thrones and Michael’s not paying attention again. He’s too busy lazily dragging his fingers against the curve of Calum’s hip as he nuzzles his head into the boy’s shoulder. It’s just that, Michael can’t stop thinking about how well they fit together, and how they’ve come to truly _understand_ one another through these evenings just wrapped up together and talking about nothing and everything all at once. He smiles into Calum’s shoulder, feeling the boy relax beneath him and turn his head to the side as the end credits roll.

 

“How much of that did you see, Mikey?” Calum’s tone is teasing, as it always is when he asks this question, because both boys know Michael paid attention to the screen for a solid two minutes. It’s endearing to Calum, how Michael blushes and hides his face back in his shoulder.

 

“Whatever,” Michael murmurs into the younger boy’s skin. “I’ll watch it tomorrow.”

 

There’s a comfortable few minutes of silence, in which Michael closes his eyes and just breathes Calum in. The smell of aftershave and popcorn that clings to his clothes is Michael’s favourite scent, better than clean towels or fresh cut grass or bacon. It’s just so _Calum_ , and Michael can’t help but fall slightly in love with everything that reminds him of the boy in his arms.

 

Calum coughs, then shifts so their eyes meet, “So, that was the last episode.”

 

Michael’s heart drops just for a second, thinking that their Monday nights would end and they’d slowly fade into _‘just neighbours_ ’, but then Calum’s smirking a little and poking Michael in the cheek.

 

“Wanna start Breaking Bad next week?”

 

Michael nods. Anything for more time with Calum.

 

-

 

Everything goes to shit that Sunday.

 

Michael’s laid out on his bed covers, one hand holding his tattered copy of _The Bell Jar_ above his head and the other tapping against the wall to the rhythm of the song playing from his record player. He feels content, fulfilled, knowing work have given him a few days off and he’s all caught up at uni. The sun’s filtering in through the cracked window, and life feels pretty damn good.

 

There’s a knock on the door, loud and confident, and Michael smiles as he realises that there’s only one person it could really be, on account of Michael having a whole two friends and Ashton being out of town for the week.

 

Calum looks like he’s about to explode when Michael opens the door, and the older boy has to grip the doorframe to stop from reaching out and pinching Calum’s cheeks.

 

“Mikey!” He beams, as always, “Look, I’m really sorry but I’ve got to cancel tomorrow.”

 

And, oh. Michael can’t help but let his smile drop, let his lips turn into a frown of confusion. All of a sudden he’s incredibly insecure, knowing that Calum’s so ridiculously happy to not be seeing him tomorrow

 

“It’s just that one of my, uh,” Calum coughs, sheepishly trying to hide his smile that just keeps getting bigger the more he talks. “One of my _really_ close friends has just moved into the area, and I haven’t seen him in so long and I get that Mondays are our thing but he’s stopping over tomorrow and-“

 

Michael smiles sadly, lifting a hand to silence Calum. “I get it, Cal. Don’t worry about it.”

 

Calum is quiet for a moment, searching Michael’s face for any anger. When he seems to get the all clear, he breaks out into a grin, pulling Michael in for a hug and smiling against his hair.

 

“Next week, definitely.”

 

(Michael tries not to overthink this whole thing. He fails. Miserably.)

 

-

 

The next day, he’s up bright and early to read his book on the balcony of the apartment. It’s fairly unused due to Michael’s spontaneous plant obsession of last year, meaning there’s only really room for one chair and a tile left over for Dexter to sit on. He’s never really liked the balcony all that much, didn’t even realise the apartment had one when he bought it, and it’s usually too noisy to enjoy, what with it overlooking the building’s car park and the main road it’s joined to. But the sun’s out today, and so Michael decides to make use of what little space he has.

 

There’s absolutely no ulterior motive. He’s _definitely_ not looking out for an unfamiliar car carrying an unfamiliar boy on his way to the apartment next door. He’s just enjoying the sunshine, plain and simple.

 

“Shut up.” Michael mutters towards Dex, because he won’t allow himself to be judged by a _dog,_ especially the lazy bulldog that still finds it acceptable to eat duvets. Dexter just grunts, shuffling and flopping onto the tiles below.

 

It takes an hour of reading for anything to happen, and Michael’s two pages away from the end of his book when a car pulls into the car park. He’s on the alert immediately, subtly leaning forward in his seat to watch as it parks up.

 

Michael decides very quickly that he is not a fan of Calum’s _‘really close friend’_ , not because he’s jealous – he’s not a jealous guy, remember? – but because said friend apparently drives a 16 plate Mercedes Benz. Michael happens to know that Calum _loves_ Mercedes, but also happens to know that Calum’s a student working a minimum wage part time job and living in an apartment his parents are renting for him, so this friend of his is _clearly_ just shoving it in his face.

 

It only gets worse when the car door opens. Michael feels his heart drop, because this guy could be a _model_ , and Michael suddenly realises he’d never be good enough for Calum. Michael’s thin, messy hair is nothing against that perfectly styled blonde quiff, his patchy stubble looks pathetic against the scruff that lines that jaw, his soft, pale body seems disgusting compared to broad shoulders and thick, long legs. Michael feels _inadequate._

 

When the building door opens, and the boy whips his head up and breaks out into a grin, Michael disappears back inside the apartment. He can finish his book some other time.

 

Ashton calls an hour or so later, and Michael almost doesn’t hear it from where his head’s buried underneath his pillow, halfheartedly singing along to the Taking Back Sunday playing in his earphones.

 

“Hello?”

 

_“Mike?”_

Michael breathes a sigh of relief, “Hey, Ash.”

 

 _“What’s wrong?”_ Ashton’s concerned best friend voice rings clear through the phone, and Michael isn’t sure whether to laugh or cry at how obvious his bad mood is.

 

“Nothing.”

 

_“Don’t bullshit me, Michael.”_

 

“Fine,” Michael sighs, flopping back down onto his bed and nudging Dexter off the edge, much to the dog’s displeasure. “Calum cancelled on me.”

 

There’s a second of silence, before, _“So what?”_

Michael rolls his eyes in exasperation, “He cancelled on me to spend the night with, like, Brad Pitt’s hot Australian surfer cousin. Who he called his _really close friend_.” He cringes at how pathetic he sounds.

 

_“Really close friend?”_

“Yep.”

 

 _“That sucks, man.”_ Ashton sighs down the receiver, _“They’re totally banging.”_

Michael can’t help the groan that escapes his mouth, nor the sudden overwhelming desire to cry or eat or just sleep. “I know. And they’re next door right now.”

 

_“Oh, Mike, that really sucks.”_

“What do I do?” He whines, “Like, I thought he was so into me, Ash. What did I do wrong?”

 

 _“I don’t know man.”_ There’s a quiet scratching sound that Michael recognises as Ashton rubbing against his chin in thought, _“Maybe you should key his car.”_

Michael cackles, which quickly turns into another groan as he remembers, “He drives a fucking merc, Ash.”

 

_“Christ, your boyfriend’s banging a millionaire.”_

“Clearly not my boyfriend,” He mutters, huffing as his eyes catch the record still left in the player. It’s _Deja_ , because of course it is, and he’s hit with the sudden need to play it, obnoxiously loud with the bass turned up as a subtle _fuck you_ to Calum.

 

“I’ll call you later, Ash.” Michael hangs up before Ashton has chance to voice his complaints, too familiar with his best friend’s need to talk things out until Michael’s begging for the topic to be dead and buried.

 

He rests his head back on the pillow, reaching across to drop the needle and turn the bass right up. As the record spins, he pretends not to hear the sound of laughter through the walls.

 

-

 

On Tuesday, Michael wakes up late for the first time since he started uni. He doesn’t have time to eat breakfast, much less watch Community, and barely manages to throw a handful of biscuits and cup of water in Dex’s bowls before he’s flying out the door and into the hallway.

 

And into Calum’s _really close friend_ , apparently.

 

He runs out at just the wrong time, colliding heads and chests and falling backwards into the wall beside his door. Michael wants to cry, both because his back’s sure to bruise, and because he really didn’t want to deal with _him_ this morning.

 

“Shit, sorry.” Calum’s friend meets Michael’s eye, smiling a little and offering a hand up, which Michael quickly brushes off. He feels a little ridiculous after, especially considering both hands are full of books and it takes a solid minute for him to stand up properly. When he gets to his feet, he offers a small smile.

 

“Are you Calum’s neighbour?” The boy cocks his head to the side, still smiling, and Michael all of a sudden feels elated. Calum’s told his _really close friend_ about him.

 

“Yeah!” Michael smiles properly then, shrugging his shoulders in an attempt to seem casual. “Did Calum mention me?”

 

“Oh, uh, no,” The boy laughs, and Michael’s face falls. “You just came out of the door next to Calum’s.”

 

Michael feels ridiculous, knows his face is burning up, but can’t see his own embarrassment through the insane _jealousy_ that’s coursing through his veins. Yeah, Michael’s not a jealous guy – but this friend of Calum’s is attractive and confident and most importantly _fucking Calum._

“I’m Luke, and you are…?”

 

 _Luke_. Of course he’s called Luke, Michael thinks, it’s such a young, cool name. Not like _Michael_. Nobody cool is called Michael, except like Michael Jackson, but Michael’s never been a fan of pop music.

 

“Uh, Michael.” He attempts a smile, knows it probably looks more like a grimace, and puts his head down. “Gotta go, Luke.”

 

Michael’s out of the hallway and running down the stairs before Luke even has a chance to say goodbye. He’s angry, even more so than before, because he’s now _definitely_ going to be late to his class, and it’s all Luke’s fault. And, Michael guesses, Calum’s fault as a consequence. Maybe he’d have been better off if Calum never moved in in the first place.

 

He’s outside when it really hits him. Standing at the door of his building, Michael’s a ten minute walk away from a class that started two minutes ago. There’s a cloud overhead that will _definitely_ unleash hell in the next ten minutes, and he’s not even had a coffee this morning. It’s pathetic, he’s furious to the point of needing to punch a wall or break a knuckle or _anything_. His fingers are shaking, clenching into his fists by his side and he’s losing his goddamn mi-

 

Something in the distance catches Michael’s eye, and everything changes. It’s perfect. It’s wrong. It’s exactly what he needs.

 

He steps away from the building with a deep breath.

 

-

 

An hour later and Michael is _panicking_. He’s in deep shit - deep _deep_ shit – and he kept getting weird looks in class, mood dropping from an elated to grin to sweating in his seat in a matter of seconds. He thinks he might have to move to fucking Zimbabwe or something, anywhere away from here, and never come back. It’s the only way.

 

He calls Ashton.

 

_“YOU FUCKING DID WHAT?!”_

Michael’s an idiot. A complete fucking idiot who needs to check himself into a hospital and get any and all jealousy sucked out of him through a tube, because he is _not_ carrying on like this.

 

“I, um.” He gulps, “Ikeyedhiscar?”

 

Silence.

 

Ashton’s breath has stopped down the receiver, and Michael’s panicking.

 

_“ARE YOU FUCKING INSANE?!”_

There we go.

 

“Ash, I didn’t know what to do!” Michael looks ridiculous, stood in the middle of campus screaming into his phone and tugging at his hair. “It wasn’t like, properly, I just scratched a bit of paint off the hood! He probably won’t even notice!”

 

 _“It’s a fucking Benz, Michael.”_ Ashton’s still shouting, loud enough that Michael has to pull away for a second because _ouch. “If he owns a fucking Benz, he’s going to notice that someone’s fucking keyed it.”_

“Oh, god.” Michael groans, tears collecting at the bottom of his eyes, which he rubs away quickly because he refuses to cry over a fucking boy in front of so many people. “This isn’t me Ash, I-I… I don’t know what to do, oh my god I’m going to have to move out I can’t ever see him again he’s going to hate me so mu-“

 

 _“Mike.”_ Ashton sighs, and Michael can just imagine how he’s holding his head and dragging his fingers across his face in exasperation. _“Just talk to him.”_

“Have you lost your mind?! I just _keyed_ his possible boyfriend’s car, Ashton. Do you want me to die?”

 

 _“Talk to him, Michael.”_ And then Ashton’s gone, and Michael’s left stood alone in the middle of a busy square with just a dialtone to keep him company and no further enlightenment towards the situation. He does know one thing, though.

 

Michael is absolutely fucking not talking to Calum about this.

 

-

 

The world hates Michael. It’s the only possible reason behind all of this.

 

He’s been home merely ten minutes; shoes still on and water still boiling in the kettle, when there’s a knock on the door. He’s determined to ignore it, continues spooning instant coffee into a mug and humming along to the tune stuck in his head.

 

There’s another knock.

 

“Michael, get out here.”

 

 _Oh, fuck._ Michael drops his spoon and the clatter echoes around the entire apartment, loud and obtrusive and the perfect indicator that he’s home. God, Michael’s an idiot.

 

“ _Now._ ”

 

He vaguely registers that he must look like Dexter when he’s getting told off, head hanging low and steps unsure but fast, practically jogging to the door with his voice trapped in his throat and tears threatening to spill from his eyes. He braces himself for a second, taking a deep breath, and throws the door open.

 

Calum’s mad, that much is obvious. He’s leant against the doorframe, like he always does, but his arms are crossed in front of his chest and his eyes narrow onto Michael the second the door opens.

 

Michael tries for the innocent approach. “Oh hey, Cal,” He stutters pathetically, flailing a hand around to attempt to casually lean against the door.

 

“Did you key Luke’s car?”

 

Well, no messing around then. Michael splutters, wincing at the mention of Luke, and immediately blowing his cover. Calum sighs, and Michael steps back to cover his face and press the heels of his palms into his eyes. He will _not_ cry.

 

“Look, Cal,” He tries, still stuttering. “I’m _so_ sorry, I had no idea what I was thinking – that’s not me at all, like, I’m not psycho okay I just had a moment of weakness and I am so-“

 

“Why’d you do it?”

 

Michael whips his head up, confused by the teasing tone of voice that he almost definitely must be imagining. Calum’s cocked an eyebrow, lips turned up into his trademark smirk and Michael has never been this confused in his life.

 

“Are you…” He coughs limply, tears trapped against his cheeks. “Are you not mad?”

 

Calum laughs. _Laughs._

 

“Mikey, that’s Luke’s dad’s car.” Michael might be imagining things, but he’s almost sure he can see that fond look in Calum’s eyes that he often has on their Monday nights. “Luke hates his dad. He loves you for doing this.”

 

_What?!_

“What?!”

 

Calum’s laughing again, apparently very amused at Michael’s flustered spluttering and bright red face. Michael doesn’t care; he’s too caught up in the immense relief that’s pulsing through him.

 

“Oh, thank _God._ I am so sorry though, I just went insane okay I’ll leave you alone now. You’re a really cute couple and I’ll just see you arou-“

 

“Cute couple?” Calum sounds shocked, and Michael very briefly registers that this is one of the only times he’s ever seen Calum lose his cool.

 

“Um, yeah,” Michael looks down, choosing to study his feet as a twinge of sadness creeps up on him. “You and Luke.”

 

Calum’s laughing again, and Michael really wishes he’d stop doing that because his heart kinda hurts and he knows it’s pathetic but he wants to mourn his almost-relationship in peace.

 

“Mikey,” Calum whispers, reaching a hand to intertwine their fingers and Michael thinks he might stop breathing. “If I was in a relationship, why would I be thinking about kissing you all the time?”

 

And, yep. Michael’s breath hitches in his throat, an audible squeak slipping from his mouth, and then Calum’s laughing and moving closer and he feels lips on his and it’s so damn _perfect_ and so _Calum_ that all he can do is giggle into the kiss.

 

They stand there, in the doorway, moving against each other and laughing into one another’s mouth for minutes, before Michael pulls away and rests his forehead against Calum’s.

 

“You’re an idiot.” Calum laughs fondly, pressing another light kiss against Michael’s lips.

 

“Your idiot now.”

 

(They start Breaking Bad the next Monday. Calum pretends not to notice Michael staring at him the whole way through, Michael pretends not to notice Calum pressing light kisses against his neck during boring scenes. And Michael is so in love with his next-door neighbour.)


End file.
